A Good Year for the Roses: A Novel Page 3

  “You walked right into that one Alf.”

  I’m pretty sure I hear Dan mutter “total knob” under his breath, but I’m ignoring it, and Alfie doesn’t seem to have heard. Ben winks at me.

  “Can I have three slices of toast and honey? I’m starving. And are you sure you don’t know where my PE kit is?”

  By the time I’m in the car and on my way to Devon, I’m exhausted and I’ve got the beginnings of a headache. Dan made a last-minute appeal against Pete looking after them tonight, and lobbied to be left in charge for the evening, like I’m completely insane. He’d even recruited Alfie to his cause by promising pizza and ice cream for supper. And then the car wouldn’t start and we were nearly late for school. So that’s another thing to add to my list of Things I Will Spend Money On If I Win the Lottery: a car that will start first time on cold mornings. And if I do ever win, I’m going to buy Pete’s school, and then sack him. I’ve spent many a happy half hour having that particular daydream. Perhaps I should start buying a ticket, just in case.

  It feels weird driving home without the boys; I think the last time must have been when I was at university. But then I met Pete in my second year and we started alternating between his parents’ and mine, before his dad died and his mum moved to live with her sister in Australia. She sends the boys birthday cards, but she’s not exactly a hands-on grandmother. She wasn’t much of a hands-on mother either, from what I can gather, so maybe that’s why Pete’s such an idiot. I think the general consensus tends to be that it’s always the mother’s fault, which doesn’t bode well for my relationships with my future daughters-in-law, or “partners,” or whatever they go in for. I really don’t care what they do as long as I’m not still doing all their laundry. But I predict a few tricky conversations when some poor woman asks me exactly what I was doing letting Dan get away with leaving things in little heaps everywhere and then expecting someone else to pick them up. Actually, the idea of some poor woman trying to tame Dan has cheered me right up. I stop for a quick coffee and entertain myself by imagining a grown-up Dan with his very own toddler. My first grandchild, who if there is any justice in the world will be just like Dan was. In other words, a complete nightmare. I’ll buy lots of sweets and unsuitable toys, and then bugger off home when things get too lively. It’s going to be brilliant.

  My options for celebrating my child-free status are pretty limited on the A303, which is thankfully empty of the summer miles of queuing traffic, so I content myself with singing along to the music, a forbidden activity with the boys on board. It feels like I’ve gone back in time, except I’m more smartly dressed. In fact I’m wearing exactly the kind of navy-blue trousers I swore I’d never wear, with a navy-and-cream silk shirt and a cream cardigan. Come to think of it, I look like I work in a bank; all I need is a bloody name tag. Bollocks. But Mum will be pleased that I’m not wearing one of what Dad likes to call my hippy outfits—basically anything that doesn’t come with a matching jacket. Although in his parallel universe women only wear trousers for gardening or golfing, or on a cruise. None of which are on my list for today, at least I bloody hope not.

  I’m quite enjoying being on my own for a change, singing along without anyone making sarcastic comments. I’m sure I can find a new house for us, somehow. Somewhere which is ours, with no echoes of Pete. We got a good price for the old one, so that will help; the estate agent was very complimentary about my decorative finish. Apparently some post-divorce properties are in a shocking state, with ex-wives trying out new paint effects from the Lying Cheating Bastard range, where you paint rude words in big red letters on the living room walls. I was almost tempted, just to see Pete’s face. But I want to move, and not just for a new start. Our road has got posher over the years, and although I’m on nodding terms with everyone, it’s never been more than that. Pete was always better at bonding with them than me, and at least when we move I won’t be surrounded by people calling their children Inigo and putting in loft conversions for the au pair. The women treat me like divorce might somehow be contagious, and the men seem nervous I might ask them to do a spot of DIY, but mainly I’m persona non grata because I teach at exactly the kind of school they’re all determined to avoid for their children. Last term we even had a stabbing, with a teacher moments away from death, according to the local paper. Actually, it was Mr. Hutchins, the kind of faded and furious teacher who quite a few of us would like to poke with something sharp. He bullies and shouts at the kids, and he wasn’t stabbed, he just tripped and landed on Dean Carter, who was busy brandishing his compass in an attempt to protect himself from Darren Knutley, who was in one of his Moods, and is known as Nutter to staff and pupils alike. So essentially Mr. Hutchins managed to stab himself in the leg with a piece of his own mathematics equipment and was back at school the next day, much to his annoyance. But that didn’t stop the local paper from describing it as a stabbing, so a few more anxious middle-class parents enrolled their kids in expensive private schools, or started going to church every Sunday so they could get them into snooty St. Edmunds. And our deputy head took the rest of the term off with stress-related headaches, stupid woman.

  Once I’m driving through familiar villages near to home I know exactly when I’ll catch my first glimpse of the sea, but it still gives me a thrill. It’s somehow comforting driving through landscapes that I know so well, beautiful even in winter, with fields of pale stubble and the hedgerows full of berries. Maybe I should have brought the boys. They love it down here, and we don’t come as often as I’d like. Neither Dad nor Roger go in for offering family rates in the hotel, and renting anywhere round here in peak season costs a fortune. We had a few long weekends this summer, including one when Dad was away on a golf trip so Mum was relaxed. We went on a damp boat trip and Alfie saw a seal. I must fix up another weekend soon, maybe at half term. The hotel’s always half-empty at this time of year, despite Roger’s Winter Saver promotions and glossy brochures about the new spa—which is basically the old hairdressing salon with some new towels.

  Crossing the river on the old bridge at Launton just before the village, I can’t help wishing Mum and Dad still lived in our old house, where there was room for all of us to stay. Mum loved the garden, but they moved into one of the new bungalows on the golf course a few years ago; it’s handy for Dad, but a lot less handy for Mum, who doesn’t actually play golf. You can’t sit in the garden if anyone is on the fifteenth, unless you want golf balls whizzing past your ear while you’re sipping your tea, so she concentrates all her efforts on the tubs and window boxes at the front now, and mows the back lawn at dusk, when the golfers are in the clubhouse boasting about their new cars. God, I’d forgotten how much I love Aretha Franklin. I’m in the perfect mood to get a little bit of R.E.S.P.E.C.T as I arrive, which is a good job because Dad’s standing checking his watch as I park, and Mum’s looking anxious.

  “It’s nearly half past four.”

  “Hello Dad, there was traffic on the M-25. Shall I bring my bag in Mum, or am I staying at the hotel?”

  Please can it be the hotel. I’m not really in the mood for dodging golf balls.

  “We thought you’d prefer to be with us, but we’re having dinner at the hotel later with Roger and Georgina. They’re organising something special. I’d already made my shepherd’s pie, but Roger insisted. I hope you’ve brought something nice to wear?”

  God I wish I still had that sari.

  It’s pouring with rain on the morning of the funeral, and supper at the hotel last night was so annoying I ended up drinking too much. I wake up feeling like someone has repeatedly banged me on the head during the night, which is ironic given how much I wanted to do exactly that to Roger, who was in full flow, while Georgina simpered in head-to-toe sparkling chiffon and spent hours telling me about all her new outfits for the various social events which are meant to culminate in Roger’s coronation as captain of the golf club. Sally was on Reception when we arrived, and winked at me, which was encouraging. We were good friends
at school, and worked together in the holidays, making beds and serving cream teas while we practised our flirting skills with the summer waiters. She’s head of housekeeping now and manages to ignore Roger most of the time, but it can’t be easy.

  Old Mr. Parsons was head waiter in the dining room, wearing the same shiny suit he’s worn for years. Roger likes him because he thinks all the staff should be as obsequious as possible, especially to him. What he doesn’t know is that they all make fun of him behind his back, even Mr. Parsons, who winked at me during one of the particularly boring golfing monologues.

  Christ, this is going to be a long day.

  “Are you ready dear?”

  “Nearly.”

  “Your father wants to leave soon.”

  “Okay.”

  Dad’s pretty thin-lipped about my black suit, but contents himself with a glare before he stamps off to the car and starts tooting the horn because Mum takes more than five seconds to find her gloves.

  “Sorry dear, I couldn’t find them, but they were in my bag all the time. I hope this rain stops.”

  She looks anxious.

  “I’m sure it will Mum. And the rain won’t matter, not really.”

  Dad tuts.

  “Won’t matter? Of course it will matter. There will be important people at this funeral, unless Bertie has forgotten to invite them. I gave him a list, important county people.”

  “People who knew Helena?”

  “Of course, some of them, but you know what she was like, downright rude most of the time.”

  “So you’ve come up with your own guest list for Helena’s funeral?”

  He ignores this, and starts telling Mum off for not remembering to bring a spare umbrella so he can offer to lend it to anyone important—local business and golf club people who he wants to impress. The backdrop of Harrington Hall is impressive, in a dilapidated, faded, aristocratic kind of way, and the local snooters have always been keen to include it on their endless circuit of lunch and dinner parties. But Helena was never interested in playing Lady of the Manor. She wouldn’t let the village Horticultural Society include it in the Village Garden Safari, where all the locals troop round each other’s gardens and raise money for the village hall. Even though the society was set up by a Harrington, her great-grandmother, I think, Helena was adamant. She used to say she didn’t want a load of ghastly types milling about snipping cuttings from her best plants when her back was turned. She’d be thrilled to know Dad’s invited them all to her funeral.

  It’s a shock seeing all the black cars lined up on the drive as we park by the stables. The house looks much bigger than I remember, cold and grey and forlorn without Helena standing at the front door smiling. And then I see the hearse and the coffin, covered in roses. It’s almost a physical jolt, like I’ve somehow managed to give myself an electric shock. She’d have loved all the roses, in all her favourite colours, pinks and lilacs and creams and pale yellows. “No common red ones”—I can almost hear her saying it—“red roses are for supermarkets and romantics, and I’m neither of those things, my dear.” I bet Celia arranged them; she and Helena spent years working together in the garden. Friends since they were at school, you’d often find them pottering about in the garden in the kind of silence only true friends ever manage. And now she’s gone, the last of the Harringtons. Bloody hell, I’m nearly in tears and I haven’t even got out of the car.

  Bertie emerges from the house, looking older and smaller than when I saw him in the summer. There’s no sign of the parrot, thank God. Although actually I think Lola might be right: the only way I’m going to get through today is if Betty puts in an appearance and sorts out Dad. Roger too, hopefully. Bertie is smiling, but pale.

  “Everyone’s gathering inside, do come in.”

  “Hello Bertie.”

  I kiss him on the cheek and he hugs me.

  “Hello my dear. Thank you for coming. Been counting on you to come and save me from all these ghastly people. Don’t know who half of them are. Appalling man just started talking to me about chickens.”

  “Chickens?”

  “Apparently Helena sold him some a few years ago. God knows why he wanted to tell me all about it.”

  “Where’s Betty?”

  “In the library. Do you think I should bring her out to greet people?”

  There’s a faint smile.

  “Maybe later?”

  “Good plan my dear. Excellent. Right, let’s get started then. Need a drink first, steady the buffs. Care to join me?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Ivy is handing round glasses of sherry in the library. Henry, Marjorie, do go and find her, oh and Henry, I did get your note but the invitations were all arranged by Helena. She’d written a list—demon for lists. Strict orders not to add any more names. She said she didn’t want a circus.”

  Good for Helena. Dad looks pretty narked.

  “I thought a few of the more important people in the area would like to pay their respects.”

  Bertie gives Dad a surprisingly firm look.

  “Have a snoop around, more like. As I say, Helena’s instructions were crystal clear. Do go through. Ivy will take care of you. She’s been such a brick, I must say, both her and Dennis. Don’t know what we’d do without them.” He hesitates, clearly remembering there is no “we” anymore. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Come and say hello to Betty with me Molly, and have a snifter.”

  Dad hesitates, but clearly doesn’t feel up to running the parrot gauntlet, so he heads towards the drawing room, where people are standing in quiet groups, sipping glasses of sherry.

  “Look at them all, don’t look like a lively bunch do they? That might be the filthy sherry though. Follow me my dear, and let’s get you a decent drink. I’ve got a bottle of sloe gin open—great stuff on a cold day.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Here’s Molly come to see us Betty. Say hello.”

  Thankfully Betty contents herself with walking up and down her perch and fluffing up her feathers. But she does fix me with a very beady look, so I’m taking no chances while Bertie pours us both a glass of gin.

  “Where are your manners? Say hello Molly, stupid bird.”

  Betty squawks and then starts repeating, “Hello Dolly. Stupid bird,” over and over again and then suddenly launches into “Polly Put the Kettle On” and makes piercing whistling noises, just like a bloody kettle. I’d forgotten about that—she did it last time I visited too, in the summer, and the boys thought it was hilarious.

  “I don’t know why I keep her—be much more useful as a feather duster. Did you hear that Betty? Shut up, or you’ll be dusting the furniture.”

  “Polly put the kettle on.”

  “I should put another log on the fire—cold day. Sit down my dear. Daft bird, be quiet. Helena couldn’t stand her you know.”

  “I know Bertie.”

  “But she’d give her a bit of apple sometimes when she thought I wasn’t looking, so I think she was secretly fond. Hid it well, but fond nonetheless. Everyone thinks I named her after Her Majesty, but it was Betty Grable I had in mind—million-dollar legs and all that. Always had a soft spot for Betty Grable. Helena was very like her, in her day—complete stunner. Not that Her Majesty’s legs are anything to be ashamed of, of course. Met her on board Britannia once—nice girl. That Philip’s a decent chap too—knows how to have a laugh. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Betty Grable. Helena had the same effect, a real bobby dazzler, used to take my breath away. I shall miss her, don’t mind admitting that. I liked seeing her about the place in that dreadful old hat she used to wear. I wonder where it’s gone?”

  Oh God. He suddenly looks confused and very old, as if he might start searching for Helena’s old gardening hat.

  “I’m sure it will be somewhere Bertie. And of course you’ll miss her—we all will.”

  I give him a hug, and he holds my hand, tightly, for a moment.

  “Terrible day.”

  “
Dreadful.”

  “Drink up my dear. Here, let me top you up. And then I suppose we should go.”

  We sit by the fire for a few minutes, sipping Helena’s sloe gin, which is delicious, but very strong. I think I may have sipped too quickly though, because I’m not sure I can still feel my feet. Oh God.

  “Polly put the kettle on.”

  “Is she going to do that all day do you think Uncle Bertie?”

  He smiles.

  “Probably my dear.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Betty squawks and hops along her perch.

  “Bugger off.”

  Bertie ignores her.

  “One last top-up? Need to fortify ourselves.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Betty squawks and flaps her wings.

  “Bugger Bugger Bugger.”

  My feelings exactly.

  The funeral is as terrible as I knew it would be, and beautiful at the same time. The village church is packed, and full of flowers, and the vicar seems genuinely moved and talks about Helena with real affection. And then we’re standing by the grave and throwing in handfuls of earth in the freezing rain, and I’m holding Bertie’s arm as people start to move away and stand waiting by the cars. Dad and Roger are both rather pointedly looking at their watches, and Georgina looks half-frozen, so maybe her quilted coat isn’t quite as quilted as she’d hoped. I definitely can’t feel my feet now, and it’s absolutely pouring.

  “Shall we go back to the cars now Bertie? You’re getting soaked.”

  “Not quite yet my dear. Just give me a moment.”

  “Of course. I’ll wait for you by the path. Here, you keep the umbrella.”

  “Thank you my dear.”

  He takes something out of his pocket and drops it into the grave. It looks like some dried flowers, but I don’t want to stare. And then he stands, in the rain, for what seems like ages.

  Sally comes over and gives me a long hug, and we stand sheltering under her umbrella, watching Bertie.